The air was heavy with heat, thick with smoke.
A car blazed in the distance, its metal frame shrieking as it warped.
He ran toward it, every step pounding in his chest.
The girl was there—trapped, coughing, her hands clawing at the seatbelt.
He pulled hard, dragging her free. Her weight collapsed into his arms.
Her face was impossible to see—blurred like smeared paint.
Her lips moved, but the sounds were gibberish, sharp and broken.
The heat pressed closer, almost swallowing them whole—
Black.
Dr. Nathan Cole woke with a start, the afterimage of the dream still clinging to his mind like static. His hand reached for the pen on his nightstand, scribbling a few words on a notepad: fire, girl, whisper. It was the fourth time this month. Same dream. Same feeling—too vivid to ignore, too impossible to believe.
Shaking it off, he pushed himself out of bed. The city was still dark beyond his apartment window, the early morning quiet pierced only by the distant wail of a siren.
By the time he reached St. Augustine General Hospital, the sun was just beginning to rise, painting the lobby in pale gold. The scent of disinfectant and coffee mixed in the air—a smell he barely noticed anymore.
"Morning, Doc," called Nurse Patel from the front desk, her dark hair tied in a messy bun. She was always here before her shift technically started, just to get the ward ready.
"Morning, Priya. How's our ICU looking?"
"Full. Same as always."
Nathan smiled faintly. "Good. Means I'm still employed."
On the cardiology floor, the day began as it always did—charts, rounds, quiet conversations with patients who clung to hope like a lifeline. Nathan was known for a bedside manner that balanced honesty and comfort, a skill honed over fifteen years of keeping people alive.
Midway through his rounds, Dr. Howard caught up to him. "Cole. Need a consult in 312. Liver failure, end-stage. We're looking at transplant or nothing."
Nathan frowned. "Any matches on the registry?"
Howard hesitated. "That's the thing. He got bumped up the list unusually fast. Approved yesterday. Surgery scheduled tonight."
"That's… odd." Nathan's brow furrowed. "Paperwork clear?"
"Everything's clear," Howard said, but his tone was off—too clipped, too careful.
Nathan nodded, but unease settled in his gut.
The day wore on. At lunch, he sat in the break room with Nurse Patel, sipping burnt coffee.
"You ever feel like something's… wrong here?" he asked.
Priya arched an eyebrow. "In a hospital? Always."
"No, I mean… off-the-books wrong."
Her gaze darted to the doorway before leaning in. "You're not the only one who's noticed. There've been… things. Patients who jump the transplant list. Donors that appear out of nowhere. No families. No records."
Nathan set his cup down slowly. "You think someone's—"
"I think you should be careful," she interrupted, her voice barely above a whisper.
That night, Nathan stayed late, combing through transplant records in his office. The patterns were too neat—miraculous donor matches for wealthy or connected patients, all within hours of need. The donors? Mostly unclaimed bodies from "accidents" or "overdoses."
A knock broke his focus. Howard stood there, smiling too much. "Working late? You should get some rest. Big day tomorrow."
Nathan forced a smile back. "Yeah. Just wrapping up."
Howard lingered a second too long before leaving.
By midnight, the corridors were silent except for the hum of machines. Nathan decided to see 312 for himself. The patient—mid-forties, expensive watch on his wrist—was asleep, an IV snaking into his arm. Beside the bed was a cooler marked Organ Transport — Handle with Care.
His stomach dropped. The surgery wasn't until morning. Why was the organ here already?
A sound behind him.
He turned to see two men in orderly uniforms blocking the doorway. Not hospital staff—he knew everyone on this floor.
"Dr. Cole," one said. "We need you to come with us."
"I'm in the middle of—"
The blow to his ribs knocked the wind out of him. He was dragged down the hall, past the darkened nurses' station, into the service elevator.
The basement smelled of bleach and rot.
Howard was waiting, flanked by three more men. His smile was gone. "You should've kept your head down, Nathan. You're too good at connecting dots."
Nathan's voice was steady despite the pain. "You're trafficking organs."
Howard shrugged. "And saving lives. Just… not the lives you'd choose."
"You're killing people for profit."
"That's your moral compass talking. The people upstairs? They don't care. And now neither will you."
One of the men stepped forward, syringe in hand. The liquid inside glistened under the harsh fluorescent light.
Nathan's mind raced, searching for an escape that wasn't there.
The needle bit into his neck, fire spreading through his veins. His knees buckled. Howard's voice sounded distant now.
As his vision blurred, the dream returned—fire, the girl in his arms, the whisper in gibberish. This time, her blurred face tilted toward him as if she wanted him to see.
His lips parted. He tried to speak—to ask her who she was—but the black took him before the words formed.